


Songs Heard on the Dawn

by OneforSorrowTwoforMirth



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkward Family Reunions, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, First Kinslaying (Tolkien), Gen, Mandos makes one (1) joke, Poor Maedhros, Post Feanor's Death, Thangorodrim, The eagles are coming!, can you say emotional baggage?, fingon just wants everyone to stop fighting, thangorodrim rescue, this family is so emotionally constipated it's embarrassing to watch, you know there's gonna be some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24170257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneforSorrowTwoforMirth/pseuds/OneforSorrowTwoforMirth
Summary: Maedhros is alone. Feanor's people are leaderless. Fingon and his people have just arrived on Middle Earth and have not forgotten their abandonment. Fingon is desperate to heal the rift between them before full scale war breaks out.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40





	1. Before Dawn

Ships burned in Maedhros Kinslayer’s dreams. Blood, smoke, sweat filled his nostrils. He heard the wood crackle, the flames jumping from mast to sail, the screams of those still on board - those screams. They assaulted every sense in his body and he tried desperately to move but found he was frozen in place. He looked down and saw there was a sword in his hand, dripping with blood, the empty eyes of an elf staring at him. He wanted to scream, to fling his sword away, to make it all stop -

A gust of icy wind woke him. The pain returned, lacing through his body, his right arm burning, and the rest of his limbs shaking with cold. And yet he felt relief. It was better than the dreams. He didn’t know how long he had been there. Time had never meant much to him before, but now every second felt like an eternity. At first, he had been proud. He had been silent. But eventually, he had screamed. He’d called for his mother, his brothers, Fingon, even once for his father, until his voice was cracked and raw and tears ran down his face like a child. Then the voice came.

_It hurts, doesn’t it, kinslayer? To be abandoned?_

  
That voice. At first, he knew it to be his, Morgoth. But sometimes he thought it might be his own. The wind that battered him ceaselessly had begun to sound like mocking laughter, or worse.

  
Gritting his teeth, he tried once again to pull against the iron band nailing him to the side of these forsaken cliffs. The bolt of icy pain that ran down his arm as he tried was not unexpected, but didn’t keep him from crying out, his voice lost. He tried with all his strength to pull himself up but that only dug the jagged edges of the mountain into his ribs. He felt the tattered remains of his tunic rip off his shoulder. Another gust of wind caught him and he watched the red fabric flutter into the chasm below, the silver star of his father’s house visible for a moment before disappearing.  
He remembered his mother had made that tunic for him, before they left. She hadn’t cried when she gave it to him, Nerandel the Wise did not cry. She was angry. But unlike her husband, anger did not cloud her love.

  
_Do you know just how deeply you wounded her?_ The voice hissed, _To lose one child, now that is devastating...but to lose all seven at once? To watch her husband’s rage and greed infect all her sons? To watch it overtake you, her eldest and most like her? Not even Nienna in all her grief could hope to understand._  
Maedhros felt his left hand curl into a fist.  
_I could show you...show you the broken woman she has become. The weight of grief she bears. The way her hands shake when she walks through the halls where she once watched her children play as all those around her whisper behind their hands with pity, ‘There goes Nerandel the kinless.”_

  
“L-liar,” Maedhros whispered desperately.

  
_Oh, am I?_

  
Before his eyes swam a vision of a woman that even from far away he knew was his mother. She stood, looking out to the horizon. A sob escaped his throat. The voice seemed to have been waiting for this and swooped in like an eagle on its kill.

  
_You will never see her again, never hear her speak, never hear her laugh, never feel her arms around you._  
The woman in the vision began to turn, as if she sensed someone behind her and he just had time to see her red-rimmed eyes before she disappeared. Another sob wracked his chest.  
_Remember, Kinslayer. Your. Fault._

Fingon son of Fingolfin knelt beside the body of his brother. Blood still trickled from the gash in Argon’s throat. His sword, crusted with black orc blood, lay near him, the blade notched. An enormous orc chieftain lay dead, stabbed through the heart, Argon’s knife buried up to the handle in its chest. Fingon would weep later, he was sure of that. But right now, he felt as if his body moved separate from his mind as he reached out and touched Argon’s forehead.  
Someone put a hand on his shoulder. His father, he guessed, by the feel of it.

  
“We would not have won, had it not been for him,” Fingolfin said quietly. Fingon said nothing. “Come. We will carry him from this place.”

They cleaned his sword and Fingon dug the knife out of the orc’s chest. Fingolfin covered the body with his own cloak and with some difficulty they carried him across the ravaged battlefield. Behind them, elves piled the carcasses of the orcs and set them alight. Others carried their dead. Despite his exhaustion, Fingon kept glancing up at the sky. The silvery orb that hung there was unlike any ever seen. He wasn’t the only one to marvel at it.  
It had appeared when they had first been ambushed, brighter than the stars of Lady Varda, but now it was starting to fade in the distance. It must be a thing of the Valar, he was sure of it.

  
Slowly, Fingon began to feel his battle weariness. He stumbled a few times, but refused to rest. He would carry his brother all the way. He owed him that much. Finally, they reached Fingolfin’s banner, planted in the ground where tents were beginning to be set up. Fingon glanced around the makeshift camp. He didn’t like the idea of setting up camp here, it felt too exposed. They had killed a good many orcs but Angband surely had more horrors it could send to attack them.  
They lay Argon in Fingolfin’s tent. His father soon hurried off, there was more to be done. Someone came to help Fingon take his armor off but he waved them away. He sat beside his brother and pulled back the cloak, wishing he could find the will to at least wash the blood off his face.

  
_I’m sorry…_

  
A few months ago, his grief would have been overwhelming, full of tears. But now...now after all the betrayal, after the ships, after the accursed Helecraxe, he could feel nothing.

  
Someone entered the tent. With enormous effort, he looked up to see his cousin Galadriel. She too had the gore of battle splashed across her face and clothes. Saying nothing, she sat on the other side of Argon and began to clean her long knives.

  
“I am sorry,” she said softly, sheathing her weapons, “For us to survive the ice and wasteland and then to come to this…”  
Fingon nodded. Galadriel laid a hand on Argon’s forehead. Frostbite scars were still evident on her forearms, as they were on many of Fingolfin’s people. She whispered something, a blessing, Fingon thought.

  
“Do you suppose…” he began, then cleared his throat, “Do you suppose they were attacked as well? They’ve been here longer than us...perhaps - perhaps they’re all gone.”

  
Galadriel’s eyes hardened, “We can hope.”

  
“Cousin, don’t -”

  
“You know how many of our people died! You heard the children crying, the many we had to leave behind unburied! And you know exactly whose fault it is. Do not let your love for those greedy, traitorous monsters blind you!”  
Fingon said nothing. Galadriel sighed.

  
“You should rest, Fingon.” She got up and left.  
Fingon lay down beside his brother, wondering if sleep would come but eventually he slipped into its release. Soon, something else came into the sky, another light never before seen, so brilliant and warm it put Feanor’s gems to shame but Fingon, in his deep sleep of grief, did not stir.

Maedhros opened his eyes and for a moment thought he was dead. He could see nothing but brilliance, and warmth washed over him. For three glorious seconds he forgot where he was and reached out toward that light but his body spasmed with the effort and he remembered himself. He thought perhaps this light was another trick of Morgoth, but the heat was warm and pure, not like the hideous fires of Angband. He waited for it to vanish, to leave him in the bleak wind but it did not. It instead rose higher, illuminating everything with its light and Maedhros Kinslayer felt tears of joy run down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So technically the Battle of Lammoth and Argon aren't in the published Silmarillion, but they appeared in Tolkien's later writing. I decided to go with the later version of events because the Battle of Lammoth happens during the first rising of the moon and sun which was just too dramatic to pass up!


	2. Bitter Oaths

Maglor woke to the sounds of his brothers fighting. It wasn’t an unusual thing to wake to. He sat up, blinking in confusion as his vision came into focus. The council tent was fuller than when he had gone to sleep and seemed unnaturally bright. Celegorm and Curufin were arguing. Amras was silent, sitting in the corner, like he had been since Dagor-nuin-Giliath. Huan the hound lay curled near Celegorm’s feet.

Caranthir noticed his brother waking, “Ah, good of you to join us.”

Maglor rubbed his eyes, “What is it this time?” he asked with a roll of the eyes in his brothers’ direction.

“Scouts say that Fingolfin and his people have landed in Lammoth.”

“Fingolfin?” he said, sleepiness vanishing entirely, “But - but how? The only other way is - is through the Helecraxe and there’s no possible -”

“Well, they’re here!” Curufin snapped, without so much as a 'good morning,' “Despite what’s possible.”

“Do -” Maglor felt his mouth go dry, “Do they know where we are?”

“We’re not sure,” Caranthir said.

“What do we do?”

“We stay here,” Celegorm said curtly, “We stay here and fortify further.”

“And let them starve us out?” Curufin exclaimed, “We should move to the south shores, that way we’ll have the lake between them and us.”

Maglor sighed and half listened to the debate rage on. He decided if they hadn’t calmed down in half an hour he’d intervene. He went to sit by the Amras who was twirling an arrow between his fingers.

“What do you think?” he asked.

The boy looked up at him, surprised, “What?”

“What do you think? Should we stay here or retreat further?” Amras scowled and crossed his arms. “Come now, I want to know. Once Curufin and Celegorm exhaust themselves we’ll need some real ideas.”

The boy dug his arrow into the ground so hard the shaft snapped, “We should find Maedhros,” he said sullenly.

“I know,” Maglor said in a low voice, “I know. But we can’t.”

“But we could,” Amras looked up, pleadingly, “The herald said -”

“You know that was a lie. He will never release him to us, no matter what we do. Besides...we are bound by our Oath.” Amras was silent. Maglor almost got up again when the boy said,

“We should stay. For now.”

“Why?”

“They don’t know we’re here yet. And there’s too many wounded to move fast.”

The boy had a point. Of course, neither of his brothers would listen, at least not in their current state. Grief affected individuals differently. He also couldn’t call Amras a boy anymore. He had taken the Oath, same as the rest of them and had already lost more than the rest of them. Maglor went back to sit on his makeshift bed and yawned.

“Tired already?” Caranthir smirked.

“Of listening to those two, yes.”

“If you hadn’t spent all night looking at the sky…”

“I don’t understand how you _didn’t_ spend all night looking at the sky! It was magnificent. The songs I will write…” He lay back, hands behind his head.

“Well if you thought that was something, you should go look outside. No one’s sure what to make of it.”

Casting his brother a curious look, Maglor went to the entrance of the tent. He gasped. This light, so different from the brilliant white of the night, washed over him like an embrace. It blinded him and he simply stood there, arms outstretched basking in this unexplainable glory. If he could but capture this feeling in a song, he would be the greatest musician the Noldor had ever seen.

“It appeared a few hours after the first light disappeared,” Caranthir said, standing next to him.

Maglor realized he was smiling. It was the first time he’d seen Caranthir smile since...since the ships. “We should probably reign Curufin and Celegorm in,” he said and disappeared inside the tent. Maglor took one last squinting look at the light, then followed. The argument had only risen in volume and ire, Huan adding yelps and barks to the chaos.

Curufin shouted,“Our numbers are likely far fewer than Fingolfin’s and -”

“If they really did cross the Helecraxe, I highly doubt that. They would’ve lost hundreds! We could face them!” Celegorm shot back.

“And do you really want to take that risk?”

“Father would’ve faced them! He wouldn’t have run like a coward!”

Curufin’s expression darkened, “Don’t you dare -”

“Enough!” Maglor came between them, holding out a hand, “That’s enough. Both of you, sit down.” Celegorm opened his mouth but Maglor cut him off, “Sit. Down.”

“And what would you have us do, Maglor?” Curufin sneered.

“Stop bickering, for one thing. We have two options. Stay here, or retreat farther.”

“Three options,” Celegorm interjected, “We march out to meet them.”

“To what end?” Caranthir sighed.

“To what end? So they don’t slaughter us!”

“No, of course, because instigating battle wouldn’t result in slaughter!” Caranthir snapped.

“I am only trying to do what is best for our people! If Father were here -”

“But he’s not!” Maglor shouted, “He’s not! And nothing will change that, and we need to do what is best for our people, not your personal grievances, Celegorm!” Celegorm was silent. After a moment, Curufin said,

“Maedhros would know what to do.”

“Yes. He would” said Maglor, “But he’s not here either.”

“So,” said Caranthir, “What do you suggest?”

“We should wait. As of yet, Fingolfin doesn’t know where we are. We need to give our wounded time to heal. If he marches on us, we retreat to the other side of the lake. That is what I suggest.” Slowly, the brothers murmured their assent. “Good. We should send more scouts to track their movements.”

“I’ll do it,” offered Celegorm, his hound following him out of the tent. The brothers all found excuses until Maglor was left to himself in the tent.

He ran his hands through his dark hair, exhaling shakily. Curufin was right. Maedhros would know what to do. If he was still alive. Maglor, like the rest of his brothers, had been trying to banish the memory of Morgoth’s herald entering camp, leering, throwing a long red braid at their feet. They all knew in an instant whose it was. The first thought in Maglor’s mind had been that he almost wished his brother had been killed with the rest of his company. The dull pit in his stomach returned.

No...it was entirely possible his brother was still alive. Still alive, and wishing desperately that he wasn’t.

_He thought he’d seen his father rage before. He thought he’d seen the extent of his father’s proud spirit, which was usually tempered by his mother’s steady wisdom. But even the wisest woman cannot stay the hand of a proud and vain man._

_Grief makes some a diminished thing, a pale shell. It makes some bitter and reckless. It made his father dangerous. Feanor embraced his grief, hammered it out like a blade, and armed himself with its edge. Feanor’s anger was terrible to behold and yet captivating. Blood pounded in Maedhros’ ears as he cursed the Valar, his voice joining with the rest as they swore loyalty to him as their king. When Feanor drew his sword and took his Oath, Maehdros had been the first to stand beside him, drawing his own blade and raising it with his brothers, swearing with all the same vigor and fire as their father._

_Nerandel had been there in the crowd. Her gaze, as always, pierced deep into the soul and for a moment he wanted to hesitate. But he could not. He was the eldest. The heir. He must follow his father, his king._

_“_ _Beware your father’s anger,” she said to him as they bid farewell,_ _“You are as much my son as you are his, if not more.”_

The sound of elven horns was so familiar, Maedhros knew he must’ve imagined it. He must be losing his mind, or else some sorcery of Morgoth was at work. But they came again. And again. He heard the sound of swords being slammed against shields amid war cries of the Noldor, the sound rattling the very gates of Angband. He couldn’t see them, he was much too high for that, but he saw in his mind his uncle and his cousins, their blue banners raised in defiance at the Black Foe. He called to them. Though it tore the cuts and gashes on his back in the effort, he kept calling, please, please someone - someone hear me - look up please - The cry of the Noldor did not cease for some time and over the clamor, no one heard him. Yet still he cried out until he tasted blood. He wasn’t sure when Fingolfin had marched away. The sounds still echoed in his ears.

_Ah...hope is a dangerous thing, is it not, Kinslayer?_

Maedhros said nothing.


	3. Family Reunion

The heat of burning ships felt real enough in his dreams, but it was a fire stripped of all its warmth and light. The heat seared and scorched. The crackle of the flames was painful, splitting his ears like the screams of the Teleri who fell by the hundreds. He’d seen horror in Fingon’s eyes when he looked at him, covered in blood that was not his own and yet his cousin trusted him so implicitly, he too bloodied his sword.

Perhaps that was the worst of it. The one person he trusted even more than his brothers...and he had abused that trust, manipulated him into murdering his kinsmen.

_No, Kinslayer, the worst of it is you don’t feel a fraction of the guilt you ought. And you know it. Don’t worry. We have nothing but time for you to realize your sins. Afterall, no one is coming. Maybe it’s for the best, wouldn’t you agree?_

The wonder he’d felt at the horns of Fingolfin had faded. Now he felt choked by fear. If Fingolfin found his brothers…

He didn’t want to think about it. And yet, here, he could do nothing _but_ think. The jarring clarity of waking soon faded to the dull agony of breathing with four broken ribs while he saw half warped memories of his father’s laughter as the ships burned, the stern tears of his mother, Curufin and Maglor splattered with blood, Amras’ ash-streaked face as he screamed for Amrod, and the smoldering shoreline.

“They’re here,” Celegorm said grimly. The brothers stood on the south shores of the lake, watching the banner of Fingolfin’s house come into view. Even from this distance, Maglor could unmistakably see his cousins Fingon and Turgon flanking their father and Galadriel, hair shining in the light, beside them. Maglor was secretly glad they’d listened to Curufin and moved camp yesterday, though he’d never admit it. Fingolfin had found them far faster than he anticipated.

“What now?” Caranthir asked.

“We should let them make the first move. If they want to treat...we’ll meet them,” Maglor said, “If they attack…”

“Even after crossing the Helecraxe they have more than us,” Curufin said. 

"Maybe we should be the first to offer treaty,” Caranthir said, “Before they get too comfortable in their camp and feel ready to fight again.”

“And what makes you think we’d be safe under the flag of truce? Our promises to them were nothing, what’s to stop them from repaying us in kind?” Celegorm said.

“Can we really blame them?” Maglor said, mostly to himself.

The stalemate continued for several days. Celegorm paced restlessly, Huan at his heels. He and Curufin hardly fought and instead were sullenly silent. Caranthir sat staring at the distant shore, muttering to himself. Amras disappeared for hours at a time. Maglor would sneak away with his harp when he could, trying to compose but never getting very far. The rest of the camp was very subdued, people speaking in low voice and casting furtive glances, trying not to look across the lake.

Maglor found himself staring across the waters, shame welling up inside. He knew the others felt it too. They all refused to speak of it. If Maedhros were here…

He plucked his harp a few times but couldn’t bring himself to do much else. Amras came upon him so silently he didn’t hear him until he spoke.

“They’re coming.”

Maglor jumped, “Where?”

“They stopped halfway to our camp. They’re just...standing there.”

He followed Amras back to the council tent, expecting to find his brothers arguing but instead they were silent. Some of the other elven lords were there, they bowed to him as he passed.

“Your uncle, his sons, as well as Galadriel and Finrod are assembled,” one of the lords said, “They have no warriors with them, but all are armed.”

“So,” Maglor said, “It seems the hour has come.”

“We will meet them,” Celegorm said, with an edge of a challenge as if he expected Maglor to contradict him. Maglor simply nodded.

“My lords, you cannot all go. If there is an ambush -”

“We will expect you to be close by and come to our aid if the need arises,” Maglor said, “Besides,” he glanced at his brothers, “I think we are more than a match for our dear uncle, at least until you are able to assist us.” The lords promised their aid and Maglor dismissed them.

Wordlessly, the brothers prepared to march out. Amras strung his bow. Curufin handed Celegorm his helm. Maglor lifted Caranthir’s mail shirt over his head. They faced each other, all wearing their identical tabards: red, with the silver star of their house stitched on the front.

“What are we going to tell them?” Curufin asked hoarsely.

“The truth. Father’s death might dissuade them from attacking outright...and hiding the truth about Maedhros, I don’t see it gaining us anything,” Caranthir said, glancing at Maglor who nodded.

“If…” Maglor cleared his throat, “If it goes badly -”

“If it goes badly, you run,” Celegorm said flatly.

“What -”

“You are heir after Maedhros, the people have need of you. Amras will follow to cover your escape.”

“I will _not_ ,” said Amras, “I am last in line. You will fall behind me.”

“I promised mother -”

“I am not a child, Celegorm.”

“Enough of this,” Maglor cut in, “Let’s not waste time bickering about who is most valuable, we began this together we will finish it together. I have enough faith in our forces that we need not fight alone for long. We will play our strengths. Amras, you will take the rear. You are the best archer. Celegorm, Curufin you fight best together. Caranthir, you will cover me. Understood?” They nodded. “Good. And you will only attack if I give a signal. Do not even draw until I say.”

Outside the tent, Maglor raised their banner and they began the march.

Fingon kept looking nervously between his father and his cousin. He knew his father wanted to prevent this from becoming another Kinslaying but his anger at his half-brother’s betrayal still smoldered behind his eyes. And it would only take one wrong look for Galadriel to kill Feanor where he stood. Turgon seemed to have noticed where he was looking because he clasped Fingon’s hand briefly as if trying to assure him. It didn’t help.

Across the lake, they could see Feanor’s banner coming closer. Five figures moved toward them. At first, Fingon thought the one holding the banner was Feanor but he realized as they got closer that it was Maglor. He wasn’t there. Maedhros’ tall figure was conspicuously absent as well. Had Feanor decided to send his sons but keep his heir behind? Fingon couldn’t imagine Maehdros doing so...yet, he also hadn’t imagined his kinsman and best friend slaughtering the Teleri at his father’s command. Amras was with them, though his twin Amrod was not.

“So, Feanor is the coward I took him for at Losgar,” Fingolfin said softly.

They were steadily advancing. Fingon realized they bore signs of recent battle. Celegorm bore a gash on the right side of his face that barely looked closed. Caranthir was walking upright but Fingon noticed a distinct stiffness in his movements as if one leg had been injured. Their armor, while cleaned, looked battered and even scorched in some places. Finally, they stopped, ten feet from where Fingolfin stood.

Their uncle surveyed them cooly then asked, “Where is Lord Feanor?”

Maglor drew himself up, “Lord Feanor fell in Dagor-nuin-Giliath, at the hands of the Balrogs. Our people have retreated from Angband since.”

Fingolfin’s face betrayed nothing but Fingon knew he was recalculating the entire situation. By accident, Fingon met eyes with Celegorm and he felt his stomach twist. He could maybe forgive the ships. Maybe. But looking at his cousin, he could only see him at Losgar, covered in blood, a horrible look of elation in his eyes as he cut down yet another Teleri mariner.

“And where is dear Maedhros?” Galadriel asked mockingly, “Is the new king sending his little brothers to do his dirty work?”

“Maedhros is gone,” Maglor said sharply.

“Gone?” Fingon said before he could stop himself.

Maglor wouldn’t meet his eyes, “Morgoth feigned to treat with us. Maedhros...he went to feign a treaty with him and he was ambushed. His company was killed but he - he was captured. Morgoth sent a herald to bargain for him, but we know the Lord of Angband will not release him whatever we do.”

“So,” Fingolfin said steadily, “You, Maglor of Mighty Voice, are the king of the Noldor now.” Maglor stiffened. “Do you know,” Fingolfin continued, “How many of my people perished on our journey?”

Maglor said nothing.

“If our places had been reversed and your father had been betrayed in such a manner, he would not hesitate to make another rash oath and exterminate my people. I will admit, such a thought has entered my mind. But I am resolved to not be like your father and treat with you instead of attacking.” Maglor started to say something but he cut him off, 

"Know this, had your father been here instead of you I would not hesitate to strike him down and think Arda a better place for it. I know not what part you and your brothers played in the burning of the ships or indeed in the slaughter of our kin and therefore I will stay my hand.” There was a very loud implied “for now” in Fingolfin’s last words. None of the sons of Feanor spoke. “Reparations are owed my people.”

“What would you have us do? Our forces, as I’m sure you know, are greatly diminished. We barely have enough for our own people -”

“Not supplies. Not land. Those we can come by easily enough.”

“What do you require?” But Maglor already knew.

“Feanor, my brother, is dead. I would have his crown, as is rightfully mine.”

“Your claim is but a half claim!” Curufin burst out, “Just as you are only half our father’s brother. Maedhros is king, by rights!”

Galadriel, who had restrained herself thus far, snapped, “You are in no position to bargain, if you will not give it then we can take it!”

Fingolfin shot his niece a disapproving look but she ignored it. Her hand was already at her knife and Curufin’s strayed toward his own weapon.

“We will give you time to consider the matter,” Fingolfin said at last, “Know that we will accept no counteroffers, no bargains. Only what is rightfully ours.” He turned, Turgon and Finrod hastily following him. Galadriel gave one last proud and withering look at the sons of Feanor and stalked after them. Fingon hesitated for a moment. His cousins looked away, shamefaced, before they too turned to return to their camp. Fingon followed his father, heart heavier than it had been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do like picturing how awkward this family reunion must've been...Feanor's kids have one braincell and Maedhros uses it most of the time
> 
> I was thinking I'd try to make a schedule for when I post but I know I won't stick to it so I'm shooting for every four or five days...


	4. Soft is the Wind

“They will not give it to you, father,” Turgon was saying that night as they sat around a fire, “They are as stubborn as we are, we will have to take it."

“I do not desire more loss of life,” Fingolfin said.

“Neither do I! But we must prepare for the eventuality.”

“If we cut off their supplies,” Finrod said, “Their people might eventually turn on them.”

“It would take time,” Galadriel said, “But then again...we have no hurry.”

Fingon said nothing, staring into the fire while the debate continued. He knew in Feanor’s camp, they were having the same discussion.

“What say you, my son?” Fingolfin asked.

“I -” he paused, “It worries me that Maedhros is taken prisoner.”

“What of it?” Turgon asked.

“I can’t help but think that it might be easier to treat with them if he were here," Fingon said.

“What difference would one more stubborn elf make?” Turgon demanded.

“Nevertheless, he is the wisest of Feanor’s sons and he -”

“He would what? Give up his claim to the throne? Hand over his kingship?” Finrod laughed derisively.

“He would at least trust us a little more. And I trust him more than the rest of his brothers put together.”

“And what has that trust brought you?” Galadriel looked at him with a mix of pity and frustration, “Pain and betrayal? He abandoned you. They all did.”

“You see into the hearts of others, Galadriel! Tell me that you would trust Celegorm or Curufin or any of them more than Maedhros!” His cousin was silent. “They are afraid. They’ve lost their two best leaders, and -”

“If he is still alive, he is far beyond our reach, brother,” Turgon said softly, “In the pits of Angband or worse. There is none here who could save him.”

The conversation continued but Fingon had come to a realization. If things stayed as they were, the stubbornness in both the family lines would keep them at a stalemate at best and all out war at worst. But if Maedhros was there...his brothers would listen to him. But would he give up his kingship?

_Would you, in his place?_

He had nothing but a friendship that may well be nothing to go on. Yet such a friendship couldn’t be dismissed. When they had stood before the gates of Angband, though they had cheered, Fingon had felt a horrible, nauseating evil in the place. Everything about it was so wrong. Just standing there had made him sick. And Maedhros was trapped there. He would not wish that fate on his worst enemy, let alone his closest friend.

_I can’t leave him to whatever torment Morgoth has devised for him...I can’t let him suffer like that._

Fingon got up from the fire and walked away. Turgon saw him go and followed him behind several tents.

“You can’t go," he said.

“What -”

“I know what you’re thinking, brother. You can’t.”

“He is the best chance we have of mending this rift.”

“Fingon -”

“I have already made up my mind. I will find him.”

“Fingon -”

“And you are not coming along. Father can’t have both his sons disappearing, not after...not after Argon.”

Turgon gripped his brother’s shoulders tightly, “Fingon, best chance or not, Maedhros is not worth you.” 

“Nor you,” Fingon said softly, “Please, brother. He’s my friend.”

“You’re not boys anymore, it isn’t that simple!”

“Why can’t it be that simple? We have been friends far longer than our fathers feuded. Why can’t that be worth more than the things that have come between us?” Emotions played across Turgon’s face until he sighed and let go. “Thank you. Look for me soon. I’ll be back, with Maitimo too.”

Fingon son of Fingolfin took nothing save his dagger, his bow, and a harp to aid him in the most daring and reckless act seen in Arda. He took no sword or heavy armor, trusting his own ability to avoid being seen by orcs or spies of Morgoth and knowing that if he came across the Black Foe himself no weapon would do him much good and he would rather be unencumbered. He went north, out of Mithrim, retracing the same paths they had used to march from Angband. As the sun was sinking, he came upon the battlefield where they had lost Argon. The stench had not faded and blood crusted the ground. He stepped over broken arrows and cruel orc blades.

As it got darker, he began to look for a place to hide for the night. The creatures of Morgoth emerged in the darkness. As he lay down in a cleft of the mountain, he gazed up at the moon which still took his breath away. His heart ached for the light of Valinor. But they had made their choice. These new lights that appeared in the sky would have to suffice.

He woke to a foul smell in the air. Black vapors twisted through the sky, choking the air as they settled like clouds all around. The smell - like soot, decay, and death- sent Fingon coughing as he stood. It took one look to know it was coming from. He pulled his cloak over his mouth. The vapor was so thick it clouded the sun. That put a slight smile on Fingon’s face. He had thought he would have to travel by night once he got closer to Angband but now no one would see his approach.

_I feel your hope, Kinslayer. It beats in your chest, a caged bird. Dangerous, dangerous. It is such a fragile thing and yet you cling to it as if it would save you._

Maedhros refused to open his eyes. He clung to the sounds of Fingolfin’s horns. Thought of their banner waving at the gates of Angband.

_If that hope was crushed, stomped out, what would it do, I wonder? Would you find another? Or would it finally break your proud spirit?_

Hot, searing pain swiped across his chest and with a strangled cry his eyes flew open. He wasn’t on the mountain anymore. The room was large but dark, lit only by smith’s forge. A tall figure, still in shadow, stood over it, thrusting a pair of tongs into the coals. Maedhros didn’t need to see his face to know who it was. He could see that the crown on his head emanated a beautiful white radiance from three white gems.

Instinctively he tried to shrink back but found he still couldn’t move his right arm. Was he still on the mountain? His back still felt like it was pressed to the rough stone and distantly he thought he could hear the wind. Morgoth turned and Maedhros quailed before his gaze. The sheer malice behind those eyes would make most fall down before him. He had found it hard to look at Manwe for too long, the power behind his eyes so overwhelmed him, but these eyes - they were alight with cruelty, anger, hatred, as well as just power. He felt they would burn through him.

The fallen Valar moved toward him and with two fingers forced Maedhros to look him in the face. Whether he was really there or not, it felt real enough. The silmarils glowed brighter than the forge, hurting his eyes.

“I was robbed of my chance to break your father, but it will bring me almost as much pleasure to destroy you.” The voice made his blood run cold. Maedhros forced himself to meet his eyes, defiance in his own. Morgoth laughed,

“I could keep telling you that no one will come. That you will hang from the side of this mountain until the world ends, but you would still cling to that speck of hope. So...what if they did come? What if they save you from this torment, what then? One day, son of Feanor, you will realize you were more free nailed to the side of Thangorodrim than you are anywhere else.” Morgoth let go of his face and turned back to his forge, picking up a crucible and lowering it to the fire. “Out there, you will hunt and chase your father’s gems and you will never be free. The Oath has already destroyed your father, and it will destroy your brothers. Slowly. One by one. Until you are alone with nothing but your Oath and the bodies of those you stepped over to claim these bloodstained jewels.”

In his armored hand he picked up a handful of coals and advanced on his prisoner.

“And you know what I crave, Kinslayer? What I _hope_?” He gripped Maedhros by the hair and tipped his head back, forcing him to look into his eyes and his father’s jewels. He wasn’t sure which was worse. “I hope that you _do_ hold one of these gems someday, and that it costs you everything,” His mouth curved into a cruel smile, “I hope you look into the light and that you see the terror and the screams and the grief you caused to get it. And I hope it _burns_.”

He brought his hand, faintly glowing with the coals, next to the elf’s face and slowly, relishing every moment, pressed them into his skin.

Maedhros screamed but the pain of burning flesh was nothing to the sundering of his soul as hope died within him.

Fingon stared up at Thangorodrim. It too was covered in the vapors and smokes of Angband. He had to find a way into the stronghold, sneak down to the pits and find him. The smell had worsened but he kept on. Climbing the mountain was easy. He kept looking to find resistance, to see orcs coming at him, but there was nothing but the hiss of smoke. Undetected, he kept climbing.

Thangorodrim was covered with caves and fissures though none took him very far. He scraped his hands and knees trying to force his way through tunnels and cracks in the rock but there was nothing he could find that would take him into the stronghold. He climbed higher and higher until he was above the vapors of Angband and could see the sun once again. Still, nothing stirred. He realized that the forces of Morgoth were hiding. They were cowering underground, hiding.

He found himself laughing. He took out his harp and sang of Valinor, before its darkening, he sang of the light of the trees, he sang of a time when Morgoth was chained and there was no strife between the sons of Finwe. His voice echoed and he hoped Morgoth himself heard it. Maglor had written that song, he realized.

The echoes of his song died away and there was silence. What now? He idly began plucking out a melody from his childhood. It was a simple song.

_Memories like voices that call on the wind_

_Soft is the wind, Soft is the wind_

Perhaps the simple beauty was the best sort of defiance against the Black Foe who could only covet and envy beauty, not make it himself.

_Whispered and tossed on the tide coming in_

_Soft is the wind, soft is the wind_

_Singing the secrets of children unborn_

_Soft is the wind Oh, soft, soft is the wind_

_Dreams like the memories once born on the winds..._

He stopped. He was starting to think how he could to get to the back of the mountain when he heard a voice far above him,

_Dreams like the castles that sleep in the sand_

Fingon quickly stood. He sang back,

_Soft is the wind, soft is the wind_

The voice came again, faintly,

_Slips through the fingers, or held in the hand..._

And there above him, hung from the side of the Thangorodrim, the wind battering him, was his dearest friend in all of Arda.

He ran, harp forgotten, and scaled the shoulder to the edge of the precipice where Maedhros hung a hundred feet above by his right arm, a cruel iron chain holding him there and Fingon felt tears in his eyes. His cousin’s hair, which Fingon often teased him for his great vanity, was cut roughly to his shoulders and even from where he stood he could see blood stained the mountain behind him. Bruises mottled his skin. He was painfully thin, ribs sticking out. And yet, he lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of the song that Fingon sang to find Maedhros wasn't an epic elvish ballad (though those are cool too) but something from their shared childhood instead.  
> I used the lyrics to the Welsh folk song Medhel an Gwyns because I'm not creative enough to come up with my own lol. Roughly translated, medhel an gwyns means "soft is the wind" though to be candid I had to get my translation through going down internet rabbit holes so pls don't roast me if the translation isn't that accurate.


	5. Price of Kingship

Maedhros knew he couldn’t be real. It must be more sorcery, he couldn’t be real. But there he was. Fingon called his name, leapt up the mountain, stood below him near enough for Maedhros to see the tears in his eyes.   
_Why does he weep? For me? For his kinsman, his friend who abandoned him, who left him for dead?_  
Fingon was calling to him, saying something, but he couldn’t understand. Why didn't he mock him? Why didn’t he kill him? He started to climb, trying to skirt around the precipice and Maedhros realized he was trying to reach him. 

  
“No!” He screamed with so much force that Fingon stopped.

“I came to bring you home, Maitimo!” 

“No!” tears were coming now, nearly choking him, “No- no - please, kill me!” 

“Maitimo, I -” 

“Fingon,” even saying his name felt wrong, “You c-cannot save me. Please, if you love me - kill me.”  
_Even though I don’t deserve it…_

  
Fingon kept looking for ways up, kept trying to climb as Maedhros kept pleading for death. He could see the struggle on Fingon’s face but, finally he stopped trying to climb. He looked up. 

“Maitimo -” 

“Please - please I want to die -” Release me.

Fingon refused to listen as his cousin pleaded for death. He felt the rock for handholds, looked about for another vantage point to jump from but he realized with mounting dread that there was no way up. And if he could not reach him, leaving him would only condemn him to more torment. 

“Please…”   
Maedhros’ pleading was more than he could bear, he had to help him, had to do something.  
He strung his bow. His hands shook as he took an arrow from the quiver and tried to set it to his string.   
Fingon’s hands were shaking so badly he feared he would miss the heart and cause him further pain. He bent his bow, vision blurred by tears. Lifting up his head, he called on Manwe in a shaking voice,

“Oh king to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!”   
_Forgive me._  
He loosed the arrow, and fell to his knees.  
But Manwe heard his prayer. An eagle large enough to blot out the sun for a moment, swooped, screeching, and caught the fated arrow in its talons. It circled, nearly brushing Maedhros with its wing and landed before Fingon. 

He stared at it in awe. The bird bowed its head then turned, fluttering its wings slightly and waited. If it had not been for the dire circumstances, Fingon would scarcely have thought it right to ride such a creature. He slung his bow over his shoulder and scrambled onto the eagle’s back. His stomach tightened as they drew closer to Maedhros. Wind and rock and hunger had left deep marks upon him and, cruelest of all, the left side of his cousin’s face was twisted and marred by charred flesh, his eye swollen shut. The eagle managed to hug the cliff close enough that Maedhros could kneel on its back, taking the strain off his wrenched shoulder. Maedhros’ breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to form words.   


“Don’t move,” Fingon said, “Don’t -” he reached up to the short iron chain holding his right arm to the mountainside. The metal was so cold he felt his fingers go numb just touching it. Maedhros’ cracked and swollen lips moved as he whispered, 

“Please...release me.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m trying -” 

“ _Kill me_.” 

“No -” 

“Let me go, let me die, please -” 

“No!” he said harshly, “We have been given another choice. You are coming back with me.” His cousin continued to babble and mutter frantically, delirium in his eyes.  
Fingon tried to cut the chain, tried prying his knife behind where it was sunk into the mountain. He thought maybe the eagle could rip it free with its beak or talons but in his heart he knew there was only one way. That Morgoth had designed it thus. He unclasped his cloak and tore off a large strip. Then he drew his knife.

Maedhros glanced at the knife and looked back at Fingon and gave the slightest nod. He understood.

“Hold onto me,” Fingon said, embracing him. Hating himself, he raised his knife to Maedhros’ wrist.   
It took three agonizing tries.   
He screamed the first time, fingers digging into Fingon’s shoulders causing Fingon to slip. He tasted the blood that sprayed his face.  
Maedhros lost consciousness on the second attempt.   
On the third attempt, Fingon severed the hand and caught him as he crumpled. His cousin’s blood soon coated the front of his clothes as he desperately tried to staunch the flow from the ragged stump with the torn piece of his cloak. He wrapped him in his cloak, crying as he apologized over and over again. Maedhros’ eyes fluttered open for a moment and his remaining hand tightened in Fingon’s.   
The sun began to set. 

They landed at the edge of Fingolfin’s camp. The guards held their bows slackly in their hands and gaped as they took in the eagle and its riders in the fading light of day. 

Fingon shouted at them, “Get me a healer! Now! And send word to the sons of Feanor!”

The elves stared, stupefied. The eagle screeched, which sent them running in opposite directions. Fingon eased his cousin off the bird’s back as carefully as his height would allow. Maedhros groaned, his breath hissing like wind through reeds. He opened his eyes frantically, like a child waking from a bad dream though he seemed surprisingly lucid.

Maedhros said hoarsely, “Take me to your father.” 

“What?” 

“Take me to your father,” he said, more urgently. 

“That can wait-” 

“Take me to him!” He pulled away feebly, “I must speak to him.” 

“Maitimo, you are not making sense -” 

“Take me to Fingolfin now or I swear I will crawl there myself.” 

Luckily, Fingon didn’t have to try to stop him; his father was all but running toward them, Turgon in tow. Fingon saw his brother’s eyes widen and vaguely realized that the pair of them must be a sight, drenched in blood and half of Maedhros’ face disfigured beyond recognition. They stood, Fingon supporting Maedhros’ weight.

“What is the meaning of this?” Fingolfin demanded. 

“Someone get a healer,” Fingon gasped, “Quickly.”

“No -” Maedhros pulled away with strength Fingon did not expect and took two swaying steps toward Fingolfin before he dropped to one knee, greatly unbalanced by the absence of his right hand, “My Lord Fingolfin, uncle, Feanor my father is dead. I have claimed his kingship but here, before these witnesses, I relinquish it!”   
Then he fainted dead away. 

Fingon waited with his cousins as the healers attended to Maedhros inside the tent. They kept stealing glances at Fingon, as if not quite sure he was really there. A few times the healers hurried from the tent, holding bloodied sheets and bandages, without a word. The third time this happened, Curufin said hollowly, 

“The hand...it was his sword hand.” 

Fingon swallowed painfully, “That - that was my doing. Morgoth chained him to the mountain side and -” The brothers looked at him in horror as they realized what he meant but said nothing more.   
Finally, one of the healers emerged, wiping her hands on her skirt. Everyone looked at her expectantly.

“He will live,” she said, “The cut to his hand was clean enough. It will take some time for him to heal, I’m afraid. We’ve reset his shoulder but I don’t know if it will ever move the same again. As for his face...well, we’ll know in a few days if he’ll be able to see out of that eye.” 

“May we see him?” Maglor asked. 

“You may.”   
  
The brothers took it in turns to sit with him that night. Fingon stayed, silent, in the corner. They didn’t ask him to leave. Maedhros slept so like death that Fingon held his hand before his mouth several times to see if he still breathed. Near dawn, he broke out in a fever, shaking and sweating. The healers ordered them out of the tent. Fingon sat with Maglor and Celegorm outside once again.

“How did you find him?” Maglor finally asked. 

“What, going to make a song about it?” Fingon said with a ghost of a teasing smile. 

“I’m serious. How did you find him? How did you - you went to Thangorodrim and came back riding an eagle - how?”

“I was starting to give up hope,” he confessed, “I sang a song - the lullaby your mother used to sing when we were children,” he felt faintly embarrassed, “Mostly for my own sake. And...he heard me. He answered.” _And he begged me to kill him. And I almost did._

Celegorm looked at him, “Why?”

“Why?” 

“Why would you - we betrayed you! Why would you…”

“I was friends with Maitimo much longer than our families were enemies.” 

“But,” Celegorm said, “It isn’t - nothing is that simple. Simple friendship isn’t -”

“Simple? What about a friendship spanning ages is simple?”

Celegorm still shook his head, unable to understand, regarding Fingon with a mixture of suspicion and awe, “But surely you required some surety for you help, surely-” 

“You think,” Fingon said with dawning realization, “You think that I made him swear to give up the kingship in return for rescue?” Anger rose in his throat, “Are you so your father’s son that you can only imagine giving aid to others for your own advancement?” He had a strong desire to break Celegorm’s nose and turned on his heel before he did. 

He stalked through the Noldor camp, people making way for him, whispering behind their hands. He headed to the treeline, wanting to be away from it all, from these petty princes and their endless political games.   
He came across Amras, sitting on a rock, fletching new arrows. The red haired elf looked up at him. Fingon had always thought of the twins as little boys, but he saw that Amras had grown. There was a shadow of pain behind his eyes. 

“Thank you,” Amras said, “For bringing him back.” 

“You’re the first to say it to me,” Fingon said gruffly. 

“They’re grateful. But they won’t realize it for a while. They’re too scared thinking about what it means that Maedhros gave up the kingship.”   
Fingon said nothing. He sat on the ground next to his cousin. 

“He disagreed with father,” Amras said, inspecting an arrow shaft, “He didn’t want to burn the boats. He wanted to send them back across to get you.” 

“Amras,” Fingon said carefully, voicing a question that had been at the back of his mind since they’d been face to face a few days before, “Where is Amrod?” 

Amras didn’t look at him and said in a flat voice, “He’s dead.”

“W-what?”   
“He never liked sleeping on the ground. I used to tease him about it when we went hunting. So he decided to sleep on one of the ships.” Fingon felt the blood drain from his face. “Father didn’t remember when he set the ships alight.” Amras eyes were cold with fury, “And I dared to stand against him. After that, no one would speak of it. ‘The Fated,’ our mother named us,” he said bitterly, “How fitting.”

“Amras, I -”

“So thank you. For bringing him back. I couldn’t lose another brother.” Amras put the arrows in his quiver and before Fingon could say anything, he slung it over his shoulder and disappeared into the forest. 


	6. Before the Halls of Mandos

Maedhros found himself before a great door. The place was dark and utterly silent. Mist curled around his legs. He looked down. He had both hands and feeling his face found it was unscarred. Turning his head, he found himself quite alone. He somehow knew that those doors were unlocked. That he could cross through them if he wanted...though if he lingered for too long he’d have to. 

His father was on the other side of those doors.

Did he want to see him? He wasn’t sure. 

The pain was growing more distant. He seemed to be traveling further and further from his body, leaving those sensations behind. If he crossed through these doors, he wouldn’t have to feel those things again. He could stay here, in the silence, never again to be driven by the heinous Oath, nor to watch his family be burdened by it.

He did not deserve the grace Fingon had given him, that much he knew. This death was right and fitting. 

“A right and fitting way to convince yourself to stay, perhaps,” said a voice nearby. He turned quickly, instinctively reaching for his sword that wasn’t there. A robed figure stood there, face cast in shadow by a dark veil but Maedhros knew he stood in the presence of Mandos. 

“It’s what I deserve,” He said.

“Fingon did not give you what you deserve. You would let him give you such grace and then repay him by abandoning him?”

“I gave his father the throne, I did what I could -”

“Liar.” It was not the sneering response of Morgoth. Mandos was not cruel or snide, he spoke truths that cut to the heart of who one is - or was.

“I expected to die.”

“True,” he said gravely, “Or maybe you didn’t expect to live with the consequences.”

“I should be dead. He should have killed me!” Maedhros said with an edge of desperation.

“Hmm. It would be easier, wouldn’t it?”

“For _once_ I should be allowed the easier way.”

“And here it is, offered to you. You may take it.” Mandos gestured to the doors. 

“Either return to the agony of life or live with my choice to stay here? Not much of a choice.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be _living_ with your choice to stay. You’d be dead.”

It took Maedhros a few seconds to realize that Mandos, Doomsman of the Valar, had made a _joke._

“What,” he cleared his throat, “What if I return? What then?”

“If I told you, what would that change? Knowing the end cannot alter the story, Maedhros son of Feanor.” 

“Is my father...” 

“To know that, you would have to cross over.” The Valar watched in silence as Maedhros looked again at the doors.

“Am I dead?” he finally asked. 

“Not yet.” 

“But I will be?”

“You have been given a choice. I advise you make it.” Mist swirled up, engulfing his black robed form and Maedhros found himself alone once more. 

Maedhros looked back at them, eyes following the patterns inlaid in them as swirling as the mist. Behind those doors was rest. Relief. His brother. His father. And yet...how often had he disparaged his father’s leadership as he was absent, self obsessed, singularly focused, bent on his own ambitions? How many times had he swore he would be different? And now he would leave five living brothers, and all the rest of his kin? He would give his kingship to Fingolfin, then abandon his people? He would repay Fingon’s desperate attempt to mend the rift between them - a rift he (in part) caused - by hiding in Mandos’ halls until the end of days? 

_Yes,_ a small part of him admitted. 

But he would not stay. He had deluded himself in thinking that he’d never had a choice since the day he swore the Oath. The alternative, that there _had_ been a choice, was too terrible to bear. But there was, there always had been, and no matter the grief and guilt he knew would wrack him, he must live with that reality. 

He turned from the doors. 

Returning hurt. 

His soul slammed into his body and the pain of every broken rib, every bruise, and the white hot fire of his missing hand hit him all at once and he while he tried to scream all that came out was a hoarse groan. 

There were shouts of surprise and quick movement nearby but he didn’t know or care what it was. There was light but it only hurt his eyes and the air was so clean it cut his lungs. He tasted blood in his mouth. Someone was saying his name, trying to ask him something but he couldn’t hear it. For a moment, he thought he saw Fingon’s face.

It was dark when he woke again. Pain like fire flared up in his chest once again and the same fire roared in his ears. Darkness, much deeper than the light of this place, seemed to cling to his senses. He struggled to keep still, he felt as if he were on the brink of drowning but moving would only prolong his death. 

_Find something - something to hold onto, quickly, before you fall again - grab something, don’t slip -_

He became aware of a faint sound nearby. He focused on it, clung to it. Slowly, he became aware it was a melody played on a harp. 

_Soft is the wind,_

_Soft is the wind,_

_Whispered and tossed on the tide coming in…_

The feeling that he was drowning slowly abated and he managed to take one full breath despite the crippling pain in his chest. The plucking melody continued and he tried to time his breathing to it until finally he attempted to sit up. 

The movement forced a groan to escape him and he saw spots. Maglor was sitting in the corner, playing his harp, and looked up in surprise at his brother. His gaze quickly turned to relief and concern. Maglor put down his instrument and hastily came to his brother’s side. 

“Lay back, Maitimo,” he said.

“Where…” words felt foreign in his throat.

“You’re home. With us. You’re safe.” He allowed his brother to push him back into bed. 

“And...where is Fingon?” 

“He’s in his father’s camp. He said he would be back in the morning. Do you want me to -” Someone entered the tent, face hooded, holding a lantern. 

“Maglor, who are you -” Celegorm stopped, “Maitimo.” He set down the lantern and quickly joined Maglor at his side. 

Maedhros tried to say something but his voice seemed gone. He reached for the water Maglor offered him and for a moment wasn’t sure what he was looking at. He could still feel his right hand yet his eyes were telling him it wasn’t there. He tried to move his fingers and it _felt_ like they moved but the bandaged stump before him did nothing. His vision blurred and he felt a wave of dizziness and nausea pass over him. Maglor had to help him drink the rest of the water. 

Celegorm said something to him, but he couldn’t make the sounds make sense. He realized that he couldn’t see him, either. He should be able to, he was just next to - he reached up with his left hand to his face. Celegorm caught it. 

“Careful,” he said. 

Why? What - _glowing coals, high cruel laughter, the smell of burning, bubbling flesh -_

Maedhros jerked his hand away from his brother making a sound like a wounded animal. His skin prickled like the wind of Thangorodrim was lashing him once again. His breathing became short, he felt like he was drowning again, drowning in a sea of fire and blood and pain.

_Alone, you are alone, no one is coming, no one, you are forsaken, abandoned -_

A terrible, marrow chilling face leered at him, advancing with hands glowing red.

His brother's strong arms encircled him, firmly pinning his own to his sides as he thrashed and struggled.

“Maglor, play!” Celegorm said sharply. 

Maglor nearly tripped over himself trying to do so. He snatched up the harp. 

_Songs like the dreams that the bow maiden spins,_

_Soft is the wind,_

_Soft is the wind._

Slowly, the images faded and his breathing evened.

Maedhros wanted to say he was alright, he didn’t need his little brother to sing him a lullaby like he was a frightened child for Arda’s sake.

But that was a lie.

He buried his face in Celegorm’s shoulder and let his mother’s melody wash over him.

_Weaving the song of the cry of the tin_

_Soft, oh, soft is the wind_

_Soft, oh soft is the wind_


	7. First Steps

For several weeks, each time he opened his eyes, he was immediately thrust into sheer terror, drowning in darkness. His brothers usually had to send for Maglor. Several times, Maedhros became aware that his cheeks were wet and he turned his face away so no one could see. Sometimes Celegorm sent Huan to stay by his bed. 

He felt himself drifting to consciousness again, and to his relief heard the thrumming melody already waiting for him. He allowed his eyes to open. 

“I’m alright, Maglor. You can stop.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Maedhros felt a flash of panic. That wasn’t his brother. It was Fingon. All the many, many things he knew he needed to say left him.

Fingon moved to sit beside him, saying nothing. He busied himself with the harp’s tuning pegs, leaving Maedhros desperate to fill the silence. 

_What could ever suffice?_

“Do you remember when I snuck into your father’s forge because Turgon dared me to?” Fingon said suddenly, still not looking at him. He didn’t give his cousin time to answer, “He caught me. I don’t think he was actually angry, just annoyed, but I was a child and your father scared me more than anyone. He barked at me and I ran and hid in the gardens for hours.” 

“I -” 

“When I saw the ships burning,” he continued, “All I could see was his face the way I saw it all those years ago. And I was as afraid at Losgar as I was when I was a child.”

Maedhros said nothing. 

“Is it true?” Fingon said suddenly, “That you stood against him?” 

“What?” 

“Amras told me. You refused to burn the ships.” 

“Yes,” Maedhros said, latching onto this one thing he so desperately wanted his cousin to understand, “I refused.”

“For my sake, yes? Not for my people? Not for the rest of your kin?” There was accusation in his voice but it was soft. Sad. Maedhros looked away. “I admire you greatly, Maitimo, and I am glad to know that you were not wholly complicit. But you retain your father’s ways of defending only those you deem worthy.”

Maedhros hoped it would come, that a torrent of accusations and harsh words would be heaped upon him but Fingon left silence in the air. A silence Maedhros knew he’d never be able to fully repair. It was his burden to bear, one he’d agreed to by refusing Mandos’ halls. Fingon looked at him and for the first time Maedhros could remember, he saw resentment in those eyes. 

“Why? Why would you ask that of me, Maitimo?” 

Maedhros couldn’t meet his gaze. Shame crept up his throat. 

**_Please,_ ** _kill me!_

Fingon’s voice trembled. “After everything,” _Blood on his sword, screams of his kin. His brother dead, throat cut. His friend, broken and bloodied,_ “And you would ask that.” 

Fingon fixed his cousin with a saddened, bitter stare that cut Maedhros deeper than any wound. He turned and left the tent, Maedhros collapsing back onto bed and choking back a cry. 

  
  


Fingon didn’t return for many days. Maedhros’ brothers were constantly with him, which was some comfort, but as the shock of finding him alive was wearing off they were becoming more troublesome. None were pleased with his declaration to Fingolfin, though Celegorm and Curufin were most vocal about that fact. 

Fingolfin hadn’t summoned them to any meetings, instead saying he was delaying the issue until Maedhros was well enough to attend. 

“This gives us a chance to retract your declaration!” Curufin insisted, “You could claim it wasn’t -” 

“It was before witnesses, Curufin,” Maedhros sighed. 

“You were half dead and bleeding out!”

“Regardless, it was my intention then and now to give our uncle the throne.” 

His brothers exchanged looks. They fell to bickering and mercifully one of the healers ordered them out so Maedhros could rest. He lay on his back for some time, trying and failing to sleep. 

Finally, he slowly got to his feet. He had gotten out of bed a few times, when no one was watching. His legs hadn’t been too badly damaged, all things considered. They were atrophied and unsteady, but hardly injured. He took careful steps around the room, sucking in breath and trying to ignore the dull pain pretty much everywhere.

He made it around four times before he stumbled and knocked something over. Luckily no one heard it. He’d knocked over his sword. Carefully, he bent to pick it up. It felt so strange holding it with his left hand. He sat down on his bed again, the weapon across his knees, tracing the scabbard design with his finger. 

He stared down at his missing hand. His sword hand. He supposed he should feel a sense of loss. That would probably come in time. But all he could think of now was how grateful he was to be away from that terrible place that could now only haunt him in nightmares. He turned to see if there was anyone standing outside the tent. His head felt far too light, he was used to having a lot more hair. His left hand stole to touch the ragged remains of his once brilliant red locks. His brothers and cousins alike had always teased him for his vanity. He ran his fingers through it and tried not to think of the rough hands that had cut it, scraping the back of his neck with the cold blade.

 _It will grow back,_ he thought, annoyed with himself. 

Putting the sword between his knees, he used his left hand to pull it from the scabbard. The weight was familiar, comforting. He let the scabbard fall to the ground as he stood and took a stance. It was weak and unbalanced but it felt good. 

He took one swing and immediately fell over. 

That would take a lot of getting used to. Perhaps if he got a metal hand it would help with his balance. In the meantime, it was something to do beside sit here like an invalid. 

He tried the swing for a quarter of an hour before he could do it without stumbling. His chest burned. Now for a parry. His arm was tired but he ignored it. He lunged toward an invisible opponent, but stumbled and nearly sliced off his toe dropping the sword. 

“The healers will have a fit if they find you like this,” said a familiar voice. Fingon stood in the doorway, a shadow of amusement on his face. 

“I think _I’ll_ have a fit if I have to lay in bed one more minute.” He bent down to pick up the sword but couldn’t manage it. Fingon retrieved the weapon and handed it to him. Now that he had stopped, Maedhros felt incredibly weary. He leaned on it. 

Fingon drew his own weapon. “What you need is an opponent.” 

The corner of Maedhros’ mouth twitched. He took his stance once again and held the weapon before him. Of course, the slightest hit nearly put him off balance. With unsteady movements, he exchanged two blows before collapsing. His breath hissed out. Fingon moved to help him to stand but Maedhros waved him away. He attempted to stand on his own but his cousin had to steady him. 

“That’s probably enough for now,” Fingon said as he helped him sit. 

Maedhros didn’t want to admit that he was right. Then he noticed something as Fingon sheathed his sword. 

“I forgot...you fight left handed.” 

“What of it?” Fingon said with a hint of indignation. He had been teased by his cousins and brothers on occasion.

“You could teach me.”

“Teach you?” 

Only,” he added quickly, “If you - I only meant -” 

“Of course I will teach you, Maitimo. But...that is to say, you _want_ to take up the sword again? You want to fight _him_?”

Maedhros met his gaze, “More than ever.” He tried to muster every ounce of resolve he had but Fingon saw through it. He was terrified. Terrified to ever face that great darkness again. Without meaning to, Maedhros tucked his right arm under his left. 

“I’m sorry,” Fingon whispered. 

“The loss of a hand is nothing compared to what you saved me from.” 

They were both silent. 

One of the healers bustled into the tent, ignoring Fingon. She began to unwrap the bandages from Maedhros’ face. Fingon grimaced at the sight. He watched as the healer put salve on the dark red burn that twisted and warped the flesh around his eye. She examined it closely then said, 

“It no longer needs the bandages, Lord Maedhros.” She changed the wrappings around his back and chest next, revealing the myriad of small cuts and abrasions that made mincemeat of his cousin’s back, covering him from his neck to his hip. Maedhros grit his teeth as she cleaned the wounds. Fingon forced himself to watch as she unwrapped the bandage on his cousin’s right hand. The ragged stump made his stomach churn. He could still recall the feeling of Maedhros’ blood splattering his face. 

“It will heal,” the elf woman said, glancing at Fingon. She sterilized it, and Maedhros couldn’t stop a groan as the antiseptic burned. 

“Continue to rest, my lord,” the healer said with a glance at his sword and a frown. Maedhros promised he would. His body was exhausted anyway. 

The healer left as his cousin stood, “I should let you rest.” 

“Wait,” Maedhros sat up as far as he dared and took a deep breath, “I...I was before the halls of Mandos.” Fingon looked at him incredulously, “I stood before them and I could’ve gone in.” 

“Why didn’t you?” 

“Because that would’ve been a betrayal.” 

“That’s never stopped you before,” Fingon said. Maedhros looked down. 

“If I returned, I also returned to my Oath, something loathsome in my sight,” memories echoed _I hope it_ **_burns,_ ** _Kinslayer,_ “That is why,” he cleared his throat, “That is why I asked - why I wanted -” 

_Please,_ **_kill me_ ** _!_

Fingon understood. 

“I was afraid - I am afraid - of what it might drive me to do. I don’t deserve - I never will deserve - what you have done for me. You did it so that I might live and to take that victory from you, my dearest friend...well, I could not do it.”

Slowly, Fingon nodded. “When you are well,” he said, “I will teach you to fight better than you did with your right.” 


	8. Prepare for Tomorrow

It was no small feat to sneak past the healers, his brothers, and his guards and into Fingolfin’s camp without being seen, even when not a mess of injuries. But Maedhros managed it, with only a few close calls. He came to his uncle’s tent and with much effort straightened up before the guards and let his hood fall back.

The mark of his father’s house gleamed proudly on his chest. He hoped Caranthir wouldn’t notice that his tunic was missing, his own best one had been destroyed courtesy of Morgoth. He’d wanted to bring his sword but knew that lugging it across the camp would probably have caused him to fall several times. He didn’t cut the dignified figure he’d hoped; his hair was still ragged, the tunic was large on his painfully thin body, and his right arm was still wrapped in bandages. Still, considering he’d been bedridden for weeks, he couldn’t help but feel a little proud. 

The guards’ expressions as they recognized him made the whole ordeal worth it. He drew closer to the speechless elves and said firmly, 

“Tell the king Lord Maedhros wishes to speak to him.” They looked a little apprehensive but one ducked into the tent. He could hear low, surprised voices inside. The guard reappeared and held back the tent flap, ushering him in.

The tent was dimly lit, as it was not quite dark enough yet for lamps to be brought. Fingolfin was seated at a table, Turgon at his side. Galadriel and Aredhel were on the other. Fingon and Finrod were nowhere to be seen. Turgon looked visibly surprised and his gaze flicked to the hideous scar forming on Maedhros’ eye. Galadriel’s expression did not change, though she tilted her head slightly to one side. Fingolfin rose, hands pressed against the table. 

Maedhros slowly, and rather stiffly, bowed. He thought he saw Galadriel’s eyebrows lift slightly. He hoped he didn’t betray how difficult he found this. His father, he remembered, had declared at dinner one night that none of his household were ever to bow to any of those with a “half-claim.” Nerandel had told him to eat his meal in peace or she’d make sure he couldn’t do anything _but_ bow for a week.

“This is...unexpected,” Fingolfin said, though he politely acknowledged his nephew with a nod. “What is it you wish to speak to me about?” 

“My lord,” Maedhros said, “I appreciate that you have postponed any official meetings in light of my...recovery.” His uncle’s eyes flicked to his scar, then his hand for the briefest of moments. “And I wished to speak to you in the absence of my brothers or others who would perhaps, erm, complicate proceedings.” 

Fingolfin considered him for a moment, then gestured to the seat across from him.

“Join us.” Turgon shot his father a look. Galadriel still said nothing but by the merest turning of her eye, Maedhros could feel she was staring daggers at him. 

Maedhros sat anyway. 

“Are you hungry?” Fingolfin asked. 

“No, thank you.” Eating usually involved a lot of coughing and grimacing. Besides, he was clumsy without his right hand. 

“Your brothers are not pleased with your declaration,” Fingolfin said, “They say you were near insane when you made it, and it should not be taken seriously.” 

“I’m sure that’s what they wish. However, that is not what _I_ wish and I am the one who would inherit.” 

Fingolfin took a sip of wine and looked thoughtful. “I have puzzled it out, but I cannot understand what you gain from this. The only thing left is for me to assume you do this from a true desire to repair the rift between our peoples.” 

“I merely follow the example of your son.”

“So you would be prepared to make this declaration again?”

“If need be.”

Fingolfin gave him another appraising look. “And what of your people?” 

“We would be at your mercy,” Maedhros acknowledged, “But you are a merciful man, King Fingolfin.” 

A slight smile appeared on his uncle’s lips at the careful flattery. 

“Besides,” Maedhros went on, “You will need assistance in keeping the Black Foe at bay. Believe me, your display before the gates of Angband will not go unpunished.” Not even the unflappable Fingolfin could hide his surprise at that statement. 

“But how could you have heard…” 

Maedhros ignored this question and went on, “My people have greatly suffered at Angband’s hands. I personally have considerable grudge,” his left hand closed over the remains of his right, “And you could find no one with more eagerness to keep watch over those dark lands.”

“We will discuss further,” the king said, “For the moment, you had better return to your camp before I can be accused of kidnapping you.”

Maedhros almost made it back without being caught, but ran into Maglor outside his tent. His brother took in his heavy cloak and weary posture and gave a resigned sigh. 

“I’m not even going to ask,” he said.

“Good, I wasn’t going to tell.”

“Please get inside before you collapse.” Maedhros marched stiffly past him and into the tent. Caranthir was inside and shook his head. 

“What did you say to our uncle?” Maglor asked.

“Why is that any concern of yours?” Maedhros snapped.

“Because, brother, you are not the only one with a stake in this.” 

“We all have our own people to think of,” Maglor said, “Yet in your _nobility_ you would doom us all.” 

“ _You_ might be thinking of your people, but I doubt -” 

“You give us too little credit,” Caranthir said, without the venom that Maedhros had expected, “Do you think we are foolish enough to risk everything, our people’s safety, for our pride?” 

The honest answer was _yes,_ but Caranthir’s sincerity halted Maedhros’ response. He considered his brother then said, 

“I understand. And I am not blind to our people’s needs.”

“Are you? You are prepared to bow to Fingolfin! We cannot trust him!” 

“But do you trust me?” 

“I -” Caranthir hesitated, “I want to.” 

“Then do so.” He looked at them both, “Please.” 

Maglor nodded slightly. Caranthir said, “Very well. Get rest. Don’t wander off.” 

“Very well, _mother,_ ” Maedhros said with a roll of his eyes. His brothers left, and Maedhros lay down. His wrist throbbed. Sleep was coming, and that brought tinges of darkness. The nightmares were less strong but the shadow of Thangorodrim had not diminished entirely. Now darkness and a terrible crown mixed with the burning ships that would never leave him. He hummed the melody to himself, hoping it would follow him into dreams. 

Fingon came once more to the sons of Feanor’s camp. The guards let him pass without questioning him. People regarded him with quiet awe and probably would for some time. The story of the rescue, he felt, was greatly embellished but that never stopped anyone. 

Maedhros was seated at a table, dictating something to Maglor who was hastily scribbling it down. A map of the surrounding area lay on the table, rough boundaries sketched onto it. The brothers looked up. 

“Fingon, come in,” Maglor said, gesturing to a seat. Fingon ignored him, focusing on Maedhros. 

“Is it true?” 

Maedhros just raised an eyebrow. 

“Is it true?” he repeated, “That you’re leaving?” 

Maedhros glanced at Maglor, “That’s all for now. Thank you, brother.” Maglor took his cue and left quickly. Maedhros glanced over the paper where Maglor had been scribing for him. 

“Well?” Fingon demanded. 

“Yes. We are.” 

“But - but _why_? Has my father denied your people the land here? I will speak to him about this, I will -” 

“It is at my request that we are scattering,” Maedhros said calmly, “I asked for land to be granted to each of my brothers, that we might defend against.. _._ ” He gestured to Angband on the map, “To be perfectly honest, I fear my brothers might make things a bit, um, difficult if we stayed too near the seat of power. Your father was generous and sent back this proposition.” 

Fingon studied it, eyes narrowed. He looked up at his cousin, “Are you insane? You are moving to Morgoth’s doorstep!” 

“That is my wish. He will try to drive the Noldor from Arda, all of us. We need to hold the line against him. My brothers and I have already made an Oath to defend against the monster, and what better way to satisfy both that Oath and your father’s rule?” 

Fingon looked at him, eyes full of concern, “But...Maitimo, you haven’t healed, you can barely stand upright, your hand - how can you fight if you can’t even hold a sword?” 

“You’ll teach me, of course,” he said with a strained smile. 

“You can’t tend to a wound in your soul by wielding a sword,” Fingon said softly. 

“What would you have me do?” Maedhros almost pleaded. Fingon could see it, the darkness that he kept at bay by a thread. If he let his guard down for even a moment, it would overtake him, maybe forever. “If I cannot fight, then at least I will defend! I will protect, I will - I will make it up to you, I swear!” He was almost crying, guilt eclipsing the fear for a moment. 

Fingon sat down, contemplating the ground for a few minutes before saying, “But you can’t. Make it up to me. Even if you could, I didn’t ask you to.” 

“I know.” 

“So protect. Defend. For yourself, Maitimo. Not me. Your people deserve better than the pain and hardship your father’s rashness brought them. Defend them, defend _us_. But don’t throw yourself away fighting, consumed in violence. Promise me that.” 

Maedhros stared at his hands. He held up his right, “I swear Noldor will stand in Arda yet. If not by the blessing of the Valar, then by the stubbornness of the house of Feanor. We will not fail.” 

Maedhros hardly remembered the next two weeks. He had spoken to a great assembly of his people and Fingolfin’s. He had presented horses to his new king, he and all his brothers had bowed. Now the camp was busy, packing, planning, preparing. The time to disperse was near. 

Maedhros tried to be seen among his people, he really tried. But more often he found himself back in his tent, gripping his sword, sometimes swinging it, more often clutching it like a child would a favored toy that granted a false sense of security.

What was he doing? As Fingon had said, they would be on the Black Foe’s doorstep.

But what else could he do? His brothers were already making trouble. He would _not_ allow another kinslaying or a coup. Already his people grumbled, but he knew beneath it there was shame. They would forever be ashamed. 

It was better this way. 

Finally, after several back and forth negotiations about landholding, the final map with the proper divisions lay on the table in his tent. His brothers looked over it solemnly, though the grants were generous. 

“And so,” Maglor said, “We go our different ways.” 

“For Arda’s sake, Maglor,” Curufin rolled his eyes, “Don’t be so dramatic.” 

“I just mean, it won’t be like this again. All of us, together.” 

“It hasn’t been all of us together for some time,” Amras said quietly. No one would meet his eyes. 

“Amras is right,” Maedhros said, “That time is passed. And things will never be the same again.” 

“I leave tomorrow at first light,” Amras said. One by one, each of the brothers embraced and said their goodbyes. Maglor was the last to leave, gaze still fixed on the map. 

“It is not so far away,” Maedhros said consolingly. 

“It’s not that. It’s just - I worry…” he glanced at his brother’s missing hand. 

“Do you doubt my strength?” he said more bitterly than he meant. 

“No, I just - are you certain you don’t want to stay with me for a time? You can’t even ride a horse!” 

He was right. It had been weeks but he still could hardly stand for more than a few minutes before his body ached and his hand was nowhere close to healed. He ran his hand through his jagged hair. 

“Yes. I am certain. I’m not leaving for a few more days at least, but I -” 

“I told you, Maglor,” a voice outside the tent said, “You should’ve just told him that we’re coming with him, not try to get him to allow it,” Fingon entered, with a grin, “It’s been decided.” 

“What?” 

“When you leave for Himring, I’m coming with you. Maglor will join us there for a few weeks, after he gets things settled.” 

“What? No -” 

“You’re in no position to protest,” Fingon continued, “A good kick from a child would send you sprawling in your current state.” 

“I can’t ask -” 

“Ah, but you didn’t! We invited ourselves.” 

“But you -” 

“You can’t very well disobey your _prince_ can you?” Fingon smirked, “Besides. How am I supposed to teach you the sword if you’re days or maybe weeks journey away?” 

He tried to come up with something, some excuse, but fell silent instead. All excuses were pretty weak when one had a missing hand still wrapped in bloody bandages and an eye that was still nearly swollen shut. 

“Thank you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Maglor said with a teasing grin to match Fingon’s, “Did you just _thank_ me?”

“I’ll be sure it won’t happen again.” 

Maglor embraced him, “I’ll see you very soon, brother.” 

Maedhros sat down after Maglor left, picking up his sword once again, rubbing his thumb over the pommel. Fingon sat beside him. 

“You’re afraid,” he said softly. 

Maedhros nodded. 

“I suppose I can’t tell you _not_ to be afraid.” 

“How long can I keep this up?” he said, voice heavy, “How long until - until -” _Until the darkness finds me again and pulls me back there? Until I am crushed by the weight of my sins, my Oath, how long until_ he _is right?_

Fingon regarded him for a moment. “Until tomorrow, at least.”

“I can’t live like that forever, one day at a time, Fingon.” 

“No...you can’t.” He glanced at him, “Draw your sword.” 

“What?” 

“I was going to wait but...it seems we need to begin. You’re right. If you are going to defend against our enemy, a defence does not come one day at a time. We begin now.” 

He spent some time correcting the way Maedhros stood and held his weapon. Though he felt weak, Maedhros pushed through for an hour before Fingon noticed the sweat on his brow and ordered him to rest. 

They sat outside the tent. Maedhros looked to the horizon, then let his eyes close. At the back of his mind, the burning ships now mixed with iron and blood and an eagle’s scream, all pressing on him eager to consume him. Over it all, the fatal Oath crouched in the shadows. It slept for now, but he knew it could wake in an instant. 

_I will...I will prepare for tomorrow all the same._

There was much to be done. He opened his eyes. All across the camp, Feanor’s people were packing their belongings and preparing. 

“I had hope,” Fingon said, “That it wouldn’t come to this.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I wanted to make peace between our peoples.” 

“And you have.” 

“But...you’re still leaving.” 

“Things can never go back to the way they were before,” Maedhros sighed. 

“Do you really believe that?” He was so earnest.

_Oh Fingon...I do forget how much younger you are, sometimes._

“Our old ways and ties are broken. The best we can hope for is to pick up the shattered remains and forge something new.” 

“So I failed,” he said flatly. 

Maedhros put his right hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “You, of all of us, did not fail. It was not you who broke apart our people, and yet you still were the one to gather up the pieces. It is because of _you_ that my brothers and your kin don’t lie in this field being picked clean by birds. It is because of _you_ that I am no longer - no longer being tortured by darkness. Fingon the Valiant, you _did not fail_. Me and mine are leaving because of our own failings, and you must never think you are responsible for those.” 

Fingon was silent, looking at the horizon. The sun had begun to set. He leaned back then said, “Fingon the Valiant? You’ve never called me that.”

“Not to your face. It would cause your head to swell more than it already has.” 

“What happened to Fingon the Irritating? Or Fingon the Foolish Idiot?”

“You grew out of those titles. Though you certainly still are a foolish idiot.” 

Fingon grinned, “Well, I guess I’ll have to think of a new one for you. “The Tall” always seemed a bit obvious. Maybe it should be -” 

“If you say “Maedhros the One Handed,” I will throw you in the lake.” 

“You could try,” Fingon chuckled, “And no, I’ll leave that nickname to your brothers. I was going to say Maedhros the Wise.” 

“Good luck getting that to catch on,” he said with a snort. 

The sun was nearly below the distant hills. Its radiance washed over them and both turned their faces to soak it up. A soft breeze blew through the camp. 

_Think of all you have lost,_ it seemed to whisper, _And how what you still have can be taken...it will_ **_burn._ **

He remembered his father standing over his jewels, hungrily drinking in their light. So afraid of what _might_ happen that for all the light his gems possessed, he fell to his own darkness. He would not be that man. 

“I should sleep,” he decided, “Afterall, there is much to be done tomorrow.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, it took me forever to come up with a final chapter!  
> I wanted the fic to have a somewhat uplifting ending which is kinda hard to do realistically when you've got Maedhros still a gigantic physical and psychological mess. It even says in the book that he never fully recovered, so I was trying to walk line between being realistic and not having the ending be a huge bummer. Hopefully it worked!
> 
> I might do something with Maedhros again idk...maybe around the second kinslaying...maybe with Elrond and Elros because I'm trash for that dynamic.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


End file.
